Over
by LittlePageAndBird
Summary: AU that focuses on Sherlock Holmes, a university student who suffers from severe depression. This story follows his plans to carry out his final farewells for his oblivious best friends as he attempts to win the game against his mind. COMPLETE.
1. Reasons

Boring. I awake each morning, swooning from one haze of numbness to another. When I wander to the kitchen, my repetitive, stupefaction of a tradition would be waiting there for me. Sat in a pill box, next to a cup of black coffee and a copy of the morning's newspaper. John would usually have been awake, pacing around the apartment attempting to tidy, ensuring anything that may cause me harm was hidden away. I'd find it of course, maybe it was just for his peace of mind. But he wasn't here this morning, he was with Mary, soon to be forever I am wholly assured.

Depression. It is just as much the medication you take, as it is the actual illness. But the trials of the medicine wear away after a while, they fade until you can feel a beckoning darkness in the pit of your stomach. That is why I have a plan, in my unsurpassable mind, to stop. Stop waking every day to greet the grey blur of a morning and the façade of colours that follow, only to fade into a kaleidoscope of crushed hopes. To stop taking the pills that numb me so, that slow the eagerness of my soul. To end my life.

I have my reasons; I don't plan to do this carelessly. It has been a thought often pondered upon in my mind for what feels like the longest of lives. Now that I know, everyone is happy; that Molly ended her frightful relationship with a man who beat her. That Irene calmed down and studied for university instead of drinking every night. Knowing that my Professor, Greg Lestrade valued me as a student more than anyone in the class. I only just had to ensure that Mrs Hudson would stay here in Baker Street forever. The running joke that 'England would fall' was still apt, as far as I was concerned.

When all of that was complete, when my mind cooled at the thought of the ones I care for being in serenity all that was left was John Watson. But I was convinced he would be just fine, for now he had Mary. I had never resented Mary, not at all. If ever I had it was only for the fact she had taken away one of my dwindling sources of hope without remorse. But I am prompted to remind myself that; that's what people do. Or so _he _tells me. The one who is always here, everywhere. _He_ is so close yet intangible, and _he _has all control over me when _he_ wants it. Not only is the sublime nature of my friends a supreme incentive for my departure. But also the incomparable shadow cast upon me. One that I shall never bid to escape. My elder brother, Mycroft Holmes. 'The clever one.' I'm not entirely sure that is true, I believe my brother lacks intelligence but trifles in knowledge. For he knows exactly who to befriend and that is his successor.

He was indeed an eminent businessman, sharing a flourishing establishment with his colleague and best friend Charles Augustus Magnussen. The pair had shared ideas in their early years of university, both studying law and business together they progressed to open one of the world's largest chains of supply that was quickly adopted by the British government and was proceeding to conquer what seemed like the world. He now had wealth, happiness, and an ego-fuelled persona. To our parents delight however he remained close to home, calling in for visits often. Visits in which I was not invited to. They favoured him over me. I tell them I want to help people, my degree in science will eventually help so many, but their faith runs low when I am considered.

I tell them often, as much as possible actually that I am due to be leaving for a two year scholarship in Germany, to study new medicines in the falls there. But they turn a blind eye, their hearing selective and only so when I was involved. So I hide behind the shadow of my oldest brother, swallowing happy, little pills that have taken the edge off of my doleful hostility. Mycroft likes to remind me, it is all in the mind. And yes, brother mine. It is. I have ensured that not one of the people I care about will be hurt without help. They all have a reliable cause to succour if things get hard. Although I can't imagine anyone missing me when I'm gone.

But not today, today is the wrong day to die. Here I sit devising the perfect, fool-proof plan that will get me out of my own mind and into a haven. This will result in my reaching of my permanent destination. One in which I have been yearning for since _he _convinced me of it_._ Here I have contrived the perfect way to say goodbye, I will feel every shard of emotion rip me apart as my unenlightened companions suspect nothing out of the ordinary. A nervous anticipation fulfilled me as I thought it through, ironing out the creases of my punctured brain. Nothing could be meddled with here. I was going to win this game.


	2. The Woman

We had planned to meet in the bar we often visited, where I would always order a coffee and she would always drink a martini. The music wasn't quite loud enough for me to escape so I waited. Watching the usual order their drinks, stumble around, concussed by their simple lives. My eyes caught her first, as did the burning stares of other men in the room. Irene sauntered around the way she always did, her slim figure clutching to a cream garment. Her hair wrapped around itself on the top of her head. She looked like she should be a villain in James Bond. But she never let her stare trail from me; I received a few odd looks at her expense.

"Sherlock." She grinned sincerely with perfectly lined teeth.

"Hello." I said, she wouldn't know, despite her perceptiveness, she wouldn't riddle me.

"How are you?" She asked, her tone softening and pupils dilating as she moved closer towards me.

"Good, better." I nodded cautiously, I was better. "You?" She sipped her drink through a straw, her blood red lipstick remaining in place at her lips.

"Oh just perfect." She smiled again. "I just came from an interview actually." I knew already obviously, although she had always dressed that way; like she was going into battle. She was working so hard at university, recently proving unbeatable in her classes. She had worked hard to be where she is now.

"And? How was it?" I ask, though I can tell by her eyes it was promising.

"I think it went quite well, my dress may have helped." She winked. Most women would be disgusted at the thought of a partnership charged solely by attraction. But Irene Adler cared for little else than pleasure.

"I'm glad for you." I was. Now I knew she had a prerogative. Something to play to take her mind off of it. When it happened. "What's the job?" I ask.

"Classified." She smirks, her eyes widen somehow as she feels she has higher power. "Let's just say I get to put my best assets at use." She swirls the straw in her drink around again, glancing around the room at the crowds of people.

"Good pay?"

"I'm not in it for the money Sherlock Holmes, I'm in it for the fun." And then she laughs, I'm not quite sure how to describe my friends laugh, it seems somewhat too deep to be coming from her. Yet just as sensual as her voice. I raise my cup of coffee to that, trying to disguise the remotely violent shaking of my hand. I can't let her see so instead I smile, she averts her eyes and she can't move her somehow adoring gaze from my face.

"What about you? Are you still going to Germany?" Irene reaches her hand across the table like she always does, so I pretend not to notice like I always do.

"Yes, I am, going away." At least I didn't lie.

"That's far away, Sherlock." Irene whispers. "What if I need you." She takes her straw in her mouth and I roll my eyes with an airy smile.

"It's six hundred and forty four miles. I'm sure you can manage that." She smirks, leaning to me. I can see the blue in her eyes, it often goes unnoticed because no one looks.

"Want another?" She motioned to my cup, it was still half empty.

"No. And neither do you. You had a drink at your interview. Another would certainly get you intoxicated." She rolled her eyes at me, pressing her hand against mine without will.

"Clever boy." She let a smile play at her lips and I let myself take in every ounce of her beauty. Only so I can try to forget it later. This will be the last time I see her.

"Any plans?" I ask, not quite wanting to let her go.

"Yes. Me and you are going for dinner." An age old trick, why hadn't I seen that one coming.

"Oh, but I'm not hungry." I play along and she laughs, squeezing my hand tightly.

"So...let's have dinner." She lingers on her words as usual, her impeccable accent almost makes me want to stay. But _he _reminds me where I am. He wouldn't like that.

"Maybe another time." I look away, pulling my hand back.

"You always say that Sherlock." She mock frowns, drawing a giggle from my throat.

"It's not the end of the world." I eye her, now that was only half true. She groans and it makes my body ache.

"Tease." She says, sipping up the last of her martini. "Well if you won't have dinner with me. I best find someone who will." She glances around the room and I watch her, taking a deep breathe.

"I better go." I hear myself say before I get the chance to change my mind. "Play nice, okay?" I remind her and she shakes her head.

"Never." She lets a mischievous smile play on her lips. Then it changes just for me, softer, sweeter. And now I have to leave pretending that it wasn't the last time. _He_ had always liked her, the way she looked, dressed. How she let her tongue roll with the mention of his name. What was there to make him resist? It would have been meaningless as far as they were both concerned. Then I remember how fragile she was when she called me that night, drunk and hurt. I had helped her, and she had helped me with the easiest goodbye.


	3. The Good Man

I waited until class had finished, and everyone had left before talking to Professor Lestrade. He stood at his podium, collecting his sheets on organic chemistry from the lesson. With his grey hair smoothed back, he looked far too young to be a professor, never mind an ex-policeman.

"Ah! Sherlock!" He was always happy to see me somehow, although I had answered most of the questions in his lecture, he greeted me like it was our first meeting in years.

"Are you okay?" His glance trailed me, there were his policing skills, he knew. My eye had been twitching the whole lesson, partly because I wasn't doused up with medication, partly because I found it hard to sleep when I could hear my own mind clearly.

"Yes, I'm fine Sir," I say, this was not the first time we had partaken in out of subject conversation. He had after all chosen to take me to Germany with him in the summer.

"I got an email yesterday to say the plane tickets are being sent actually. It's like you knew I had something to tell you." He smiled, showing all of his teeth. We held a relationship more like good friends rather than student and teacher.

"Obviously." I tried a smile.

"Are you all ready to go then?" He leant on the podium now.

"Sort of." I say- I didn't even have a visa sorted. I hadn't even looked into getting one because I knew I'd not need it. He smiled at me cautiously.

"It won't all be work you know. I have a few days out planned for us. Germany is a wonderful place for the night life." He seemed to be looking for something, a photograph. He sighed when he gave up, chuckling lightly. "And the waterfalls there, where we will be studying. They put you at peace, really beautiful." He laughed again.

"And dangerous," I added.

"Well yes. It is scary how quick the water can take you. We just have to take the necessary precautions." I nod in agreement and he hides his lips in a smile. He feels awkward, and I don't know why I am lingering. Part of me wants to tell him what is going on in my mind, but I know I can't.

"Professor Lestrade? How confident are you with molecular spectroscopy?" A woman interrupts us, pushing open the lecture hall door. I half turn to look at her.

"That's not my forte, sorry Professor Donovan." He shoots her a smile. "Ask Professor Anderson, he might be able to help you," he tells her. She bites her lip, her hands snaking through her hair, suddenly becoming shy.

"I think she's already been asking too much of him, Professor Lestrade." I can't help but say; he stifles his laughter.

"I have asked him. He's an idiot when it comes to molecular scattering." She sighs melodramatically.

"It's the redirection of light, thought to be because of an interaction with a form of matter. Often used to transfer energy, it changes the wavelength of the radiation," I say all at once. Professor Lestrade looks at me, impressed as ever. But Professor Donovan sneers.

"I'll keep that in mind," she spits, slamming the door on her way out of the hall. When I look back at Lestrade he is rolling his eyes.

"What would we do without you?" he jokes. _'You'll find out.'_ I think. "I really could stay around and chat with you all day Mr Holmes, but I have a class in fifteen minutes." He clears his throat and glances at the door accidentally. I nod and reluctantly set myself up to leave. He looks at me cautiously, I must have been frowning.

"I think I may have expressed this… too many times, but I hope you know you are a credit to this university, to this class and to me." He smiled softly, like he knew that was what I needed to hear. "You're not just a valued student but a friend. And a great man."

I kept an aloof exterior, neither smiling nor frowning. "Thank you," I say, for many reasons. I put my hand out of him to shake and he takes it wearily. A shock of confusion blanching his face. I smile to reassure him. "Goodbye sir," I say, turning to walk down the steps.

"I'll see you next week Sherlock."

"See you, then."


	4. The One Who Counted

I wanted to surprise Molly. I feel she deserved it; she probably hadn't had that in a while. I clutched a string of yellow roses as I made my way to her flat. I rang the buzzer for her apartment. She always acted hesitantly now, especially when answering the door.

"Hello," her small voice came from the speaker.

"Hi. It's just me," I say, that's what I always say.

"Sherlock! Hi, okay. Come on up." I could really have just gone straight up to her room. But I was scared she wouldn't answer her door.

Molly had just ended a year-long relationship with the most pretentious dickhead I had ever met. That was saying a lot for me. Tom, I think they called him. I never cared enough to learn his name, I never called him by his name either, only slurs of angered swear words. It was last month, me and John had been sat watching telly in the flat when we got the call. An old friend of John's, Mike Stamford had been passing by and heard shouting along with a multitude of other hazardous sounds coming from Molly's third floor flat. He said he had tried knocking but was only told to go away. Or something along the lines that entailed he wasn't wanted. When me and John arrived it was a state, her whole apartment was dishevelled, photo frames of her family and friends smashed. Her ornaments, that she took great care of, had been broken and scattered along the floor. The general mess of the room was a tragedy in itself. When we arrived Tom was nowhere to be found. Molly however was curled up on the sofa, cradling a cushion against her chest and heaving in panic. A purple smudge had made home on her cheek, a small wound there too. Like someone had taken a paintbrush across an ashen canvas. I was numb with anger; I will never understand how anyone could hurt Molly Hooper. She told us she had broken up with him, that the abuse was no longer something she could handle, but he didn't seem to understand.

Molly answered the door, trying a cheery smile. The remnants of a bruise still lay on her left cheek, a little scar now, too. She had attempted to cover it with makeup but I saw past that, she just wanted people to think she was strong.

"Sherlock," she said, throwing her arms around my shoulders; I let one of my hands rest on the top of her back. That was the way she liked to be held, she liked to feel safe. "Come in!" she insisted, pulling me by the arm. I presented to her the flowers and she beamed, the yellow reflecting onto her face, giving her an almost magical glow.

"Aw! My favourites, thank you Sherlock." She grins, scrunching up her face.

"I know," I say, with a smile to meet hers. She wanders into the kitchen to look for a vase. One that may have survived Tom's previous destruction. On failing, she came back clutching a long glass, nervously placing it down and putting the flowers in on by one.

"Any reason I am blessed with your presence?" she jokes, not looking at me.

"Just thought I'd say hello." Or goodbye. "And check how you were," I add. She turns around to me, not liking the pity that accidentally lined my tone.

"You don't have to keep an eye on me." She frowns, I would argue but this is not the time.

"I know. I wanted to see you," I say, mistakenly. Her whole face lights up and there is a cavernous pain in my chest.

"Oh. Well, thank you," she says, sitting down on a chair facing me.

"Has Tom been in touch at all?" I ask, glancing around the apartment, I see the ghosts of shattered china, and hear the echoes of faltered screams.

"No. Thankfully. He's staying well away..." She bit her lip nervously, until she met my distant gaze. "Sherlock are you... ok?" Her eyes seem to widen when she says my name and I shake out of my paralysis.

"Yes. Yes I am. Fine." I mutter haphazardly. She retreats cautiously, knowing not to pry. "I was just passing and I thought I would drop by." That was almost an insult to Molly's intelligence, she knew all too well that to have flowers like yellow roses a trip to town would have taken place. She blushed.

"Well, thank you." She nodded.

"Your hair, you suit it like that." I distract her from myself.

"Oh? No, not like this I just woke up and threw it back!" Her cheeks were crimson and I smiled, an emotional effect on a person is much harder for me to pick up on. Small changes notify me that I had done well. But the way Molly would blush, retreat into her shell, the intense emotional effect that made her lose her guard. It made me feel powerful. She gave me more than she took.

"Promise me something?" I ask after mustering the courage. It takes a while. Molly raises an eyebrow at me, her face softening the way it always did.

"Anything." Her voice is sincere, I expected nothing less.

"Stay away from bad men Molly Hooper, stay away from them. Find someone who's going to...take care of you," It's hard for me to say because part of me wishes that _I _couldtake care of her. But what use would I be? I couldn't even take care of myself. Molly's eyes were glistening.

"I'll try..." She spoke quietly now, like if she spoke any louder she would say too much. "Or, Um...actually I, um, it doesn't matter. Tea?" She stumbles around her sentence moving to get up. I push her back with my stare. Eager to know what she was going to say.

"Molly?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow, she wrings her hands nervously.

"Sherlock...when, when you get back. When you get back from Germany. I was wondering if you'd want to...stay, with me? Sherlock. I..."

"Molly..." I say coarsely because I might cry if I let my voice grow softer. I see her nod, biting her lip.

"I understand," she says, tears brimming in her eyes. Suddenly I feel highly unsatisfied. Angry. Annoyed. I came here to have a nice goodbye and, I upset her. I always upset her. Because I can't stay in this room much longer, it is etched with the memories of pain. The walls have seen and heard far too much, the ghosts are all too overwhelming for me. I stand to leave, if I don't I know I will stay forever. Her eyes follow me and she nods, an impish smile playing at her lips. She never stays angry for long. I stop at her door before I open it.

"Forgive me. Molly Hooper." I lean down and briefly press my lips against her cheek. Her eyes remain closed for seconds afterwards and I wish I could give her so much more. "Be okay? For me." I warn, but I smile.

"You too. You be okay Sherlock." For a moment I think she's got me, her brow is furrowed.

"Oh, don't worry about me. I'm going to be just fine," I say. Leaning forward again to kiss her hairline. For some reason I thought maybe that would be enough but no.

"Goodbye Sherlock," She grins, I reply with a smile because saying it is all too real. I might have actually talked myself out of it. An unfamiliar swelling grew in my chest. Then _he _was there_. _Molly didn't care. Molly would realise what I was. How broken my mind was. And I wouldn't count. That was fair I thought, as I entered my home for one last time. Molly Hooper deserved more than I could give her.


	5. The Landlady and the Skull

I sit in my chair and I know that there's not long left now. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The busiest time at St Bartholomew's bridge is seven o'clock on a Friday evening. I've timed it for my fall. And _he_ is happy.

I sit in my chair for one last time and engulf the room. My arms roll along the leather carefully, looking at the empty seat before me. I feel an ache in my chest as I admire each and every particle of dust that flitters around in the air, falling to the floor.

John's chair. Its patched material. Worn, used. I hear the ghost of his laughter, a constant reminder from him, keeping me on the right track. But not one person could stop me now.

I stand, my fingers brushing the dust from the top of the fireplace. Mrs Hudson hadn't dusted today and for that I was thankful. The skull, I had shared so many dear conversations with. I pick it up and hold it to my chest, smudging the dirt that had made home on its fading bone.

I stare at the books again, reading all of their titles. Biding my time though it is pointless, for I know tonight ends with the thing _he_ wants the most.

"Sherlock? You really should dust in here you know!" Mrs Hudson rambles her way into the room, frowning at the sight of drawn curtains and abundant mess. I can't do anything but stare. It has occurred to me, this is the last time. I feel uneasy; I never usually hold sentiment for moments so trivial.

"Maybe one day." I try a smile, Mrs Hudson then goes on to tell me about her day. For once I don't feel the compelling need to fall asleep. Instead I take in every word.

"Sherlock are you ok?" she asks, curiously observant.

"I will be. I think I need to go for a walk," I tell her, and I sound frighteningly convincing. As though just merely walking through London would fill all of this emptiness. Push out the evil and replace it with cold breezes and busy streets.

"Be careful you, and be sure to wear a scarf! You'll catch your death!" she warns; I can't help but laugh. But like many words, I feel it rise in my throat but never come out.

"Thank you. Mrs Hudson." I say. She looks taken aback and for that my heart truly aches. I had created this facade of coldness. Heartlessness. And now I regret it all. I want it to be over.

"Well someone has to tell you." She grins, shaking her head with a joyous laugh. "Don't forget to look both ways before you cross the road. God knows how distracted you get." She means well, she always has. Then she leaves my flat to potter around downstairs.

I look out of the window to the street below and it is quiet. Hatefully quiet. I find it funny how the world works, someone could be breaking, anywhere, at any time. Yet people are blissfully ignorant, they'll never know. I feel somewhat content with my farewells, as I slide into my coat. Tying my scarf tightly around my neck.

It feels right to go into battle with the correct armour.

I foolishly whisper a goodbye; I'm not quite sure who to. Then I walk down the steps for the last time. I hear each fateful creak beneath my weight, echoed conversations of time before the time before.

I stop outside of the door, turning to make sure the knocker isn't straight. Then I walk. The air is sharp and cold like needles against my skin. Lights skim by me like people, brushing through the crowds. Not one of them aware, able to see what I am.

I am near. My heart rises in my throat as I see the bridge is in sight. Which means there is one person left.


	6. The Best Friend

"Sherlock are you okay?" John asked, I could hear the wind blaring on the other side of the phone.

"John. Hello." I say, my breath keeps catching in my throat as I attempt to keep my balance on the side of the tall bridge. All I see now is the blue of lights as iced tears spilled from my eyes.

"Where are you?" John asked, his voice seemed so small, so insignificant.

"Out. Just...out. Where are you?" I ask, clutching to cold metal behind me to keep still. My hand starts to numb.

"I'm almost home," I hear him smile as he says that, my chest aches with the pang of regret. But I carry on.

"John I'm on St. Bart's bridge." I say without reserve. John seems to hold his breath. He pauses; I imagine he's stopped in the street too.

"Sherlock..." He mumbles my name, his voice just a croak.

"Don't. Don't try to find me. I'm not coming back now." I remain determined, this is my final plan. I'm where I should be.

"Please, don't do this." John begs, I am thankful for the fact I can't see him face.

"I have to John. This is how _he_ wants it. I have to do it." I tell him and I hope he'll understand.

"_He_? Sherlock. You haven't been taking your medication!" John knows what I mean straight away, the only man to believe I wasn't crazy. Here I am leaving him forever.

"No. I haven't, it's easier that way." I give him a well-known fact; he's almost a doctor after all. He pauses for a long time and part of me wishes he had in fact hung up.

"Easier to do what?! Do you know how many people need you right now? Sherlock?" Irene. Professor Lestrade. Molly. Mrs Hudson. Oh I knew, but that would never change the beckoning need in my soul to be gone.

"I've arranged this John. I've said my goodbyes." John. He needed me. That's why I planned his goodbye over the phone, to see him break would surely make me stay. No voice in my mind would ever render that.

"Where was mine? Is this it? A phone call before you do it?" I laugh like he'd read my mind, a treacherous thought really. Oh how he would fear the things I thought of.

"I, yes. Yours was the hardest farewell by far." That was my apology, a weak, not suffice enough sentence that would never make up for anything.

"Sherlock, stop it. Come home," He is pleading now, I recall the familiar octave of his voice.

"No, please do this for me. Let me go." I tell him, leaving him no choice but to do as I say. He inhales sharply on the end of the line.

"Sherlock don't-"

"Goodbye John."

I say. The last I heard of his voice was a soft and strangled cry, as I stretched my arms out by my side, feeling the wind take me as I drop.

It is scary at first, falling. Then I realise it is just like flying. I keep my eyes closed, endless thorns of brash, London air scraping my face, and after moments. I hit the water.

They say that dying is a repetition of all life you have lived. That you see your loved ones come and go again. Reliving your favourite moments.

I chose however, to bask in the fact that my mind was now free. The weight of another mans words were now ringing out of my mind and into the under current below me. My skin grew colder as I remained there for a long time.

Each swallowed breath of water made my lungs heave and expand as they filled with the unfamiliar, cool liquid. I was suffocated by my own organs as I resisted struggling against the slight waves.

Eventually my body grew bored of the torture; I no longer ceased to rise from the depths of the river. Instead I embraced death, shaking hands at once with the peace that was greeting me.

In my final moments, as the water takes me further. I remember a man I once knew. A man who I no longer could amaze with my words. A man who unknowingly saved me for so long.

In my final moments, as the surface blesses my face with an unforgiving breeze. I feel the regret of not telling my saviour how he helped me. I instead hoped he would find that one out on his own accord.

There is a blare of sirens now, I see their light through my closed lids but the world is now to me just white noise. I feel the last warming touch of a friend as my body is heaved from the water. Echoes of screams and broken words escape from them as my tangled mass is pulled to land.

It is now that my soul departs.

In the arms of a doctor I feel myself slip away.

My final problem. Solved.


	7. Him

He had a name for me, only just a whisper. I got his last moments of life. I won. I was his enemy and yet he was _my_ creator. Moriarty, the spider of his mind, pulling on every single string until he was unravelled.

I, almighty in my battle to win him over to the dark. He may be on the side of the angels now. But because of me, lurid and twisted, he'll never be one of them.

I pushed him to his fall.

I was the ghost on the bridge that made him let go.

I was the whisper he heard telling him he was unneeded.

I am an echo of his innermost thoughts.

I am triumphant. His final game was played. And this is just winning.

He is a soldier; he tried to battle against me. Many a man does, but love motivated Sherlock more than anyone would ever know.

I do worry, expressly about his friends. They will cry, all of them I'm sure.

The woman, _the _woman. Oh how I enjoyed her. She will cry, she will be heartbroken. For although she is ice... she has a fire in her soul burning just for him.

That good friend of his, Professor Lestrade. His choice of companion for travels to the falls. I tore him right out of that opportunity. That oddly beautiful mind, deeply broken and now beyond our world.

Molly Hooper will cry. God, will she. Her soul will be destroyed; she might never love again because of me. That fragile little heart she held home to, crushed by just one act of a broken man.

That annoying woman who complained about cleaning and was never quite useful enough, she'll probably cry for days. Undecided between anger and heartache. I suppose she'll miss his music the most, whether that meant his violin playing or the sound of his impossible voice.

Now, it's John Watson I worry for the most. Seemingly so strong and now with a partner of his own. But I see through that façade; he isn't the soldier he claims to be. He won't be able to live on without Sherlock. Forever hoping that he would see him one last time, hear one last word. Always going back to the door of their old apartment to be only greeted by dust and emptiness.

Walking past the places they'd visit together, alone.

Driving to the university, alone. Over that bridge where I had made Sherlock's last fateful decision for him.

The man who fought so impeccably to not become what he feared the most had done just that.

He attempted to play the game.

And I won.


End file.
